Ombrophilia
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: In which a misconception about a certain rainy day leaves England to explain his love of the rain to a rather confused America. USxUK; One-shot.


England let out a content sigh, leaning back in his chair. Naturally, that had upset the nation lying on his chest and playing a hand-held video-game of some sort. America let out a grumble of dissent, but didn't linger on it, as apparently there was something important he had to do in his game.

Still, it didn't take long for America to lose whatever it was that he was doing, and he clicked the game shut, muttering something about overpowered bosses before laying down against England once more, his larger frame slightly awkward against England's own rather slight one.

The British nation couldn't help but smile. He ran his hands through the other nation's hair before returning it to his book to turn the page.

A few moments passed, and he realized, absently, that there was a distinct pitter-pattering on the roof.

It was raining.

England smiled faintly and, just as absently, said, "It's absolutely lovely out there right now, isn't it?"

He closed his eyes, unable to resist a light, content hum. As far as he knew, he'd always loved the rain. Even when it ruined his evening plans or drenched him on the way home when he forgot an umbrella, it was still welcome.

It had simply always been there. Whether as a gentle sprinkle or a downpour, the rain was… _dependable_. It was soothing, really, to have something so consistently inconsistent—as, really, the weather changed at the drop of a hat, and would go from sunshine to rain within seconds.

But the fact of the matter is that it had always been _there_.

Even when his older brothers, Scotland or Ireland or Wales (or any of the smaller dependencies of the crown), picked on him or treated him like dirt, he'd still have something to hold onto, something that wouldn't change. He still had the rain.

And as the youngest of nearly all of his siblings, mistreated and ignored, something dependable was necessary.

Naturally, not every memory in the rain was good _necessarily_, but knowing that something was comforting was half the comfort about it, and England was determined not to have his one consistency ruined or taken from him. So he didn't let bad memories bother him, and the moments when he couldn't help but be reminded of something awful, he simply brought an umbrella or, if he was inside, turned on music to drown out the pitter-pattering on the roof.

But at the moment, as far as he could tell, there wasn't anything that England was upset about, and the rain actually made a rather nice background noise to his book.

So he was quite perplexed as to why America had suddenly jerked awake and shifted over, turning to face England.

"Wh-What?" The British nation asked, perplexed. "Is there something on my face?"

"You—What did you just say?" America demanded, stumbling over his words just slightly. As America rarely stuttered, it alerted England that something was… wrong.

Strange. Everything had been fine just moments ago.

"I just said that the weather was lovely, that's all," England said, furrowing his eyebrows. Sensing that they'd probably be talking for a while, he glanced at the page he'd been on in his book and closed it. "Is there a problem, love?"

"You… I mean, don't you…" America gulped, his voice suddenly dipping into a low whisper, "Don't you hate the rain, England?"

The British nation blinked. "…I beg your pardon?"

"I—I mean, we… We fought in the rain! I left you in the rain, and, just…" the American shook his head, apparently at a loss for words. _Strange, he was usually such a chatterbox_, England thought mildly.

"I'm afraid I don't see how it applies," England said slowly, deliberately, staring into the other's eyes just as pointedly. "Unless, of course, it doesn't rain much on your side of the pond?"

America just gaped at him. "Doesn't it matter to you?!"

England frowned. "Yes, I dare say your Revolution mattered quite a bit to me, though I assure you it hasn't exactly traumatized me…" he paused. "Though, naturally, I don't go out of my way to read and re-read your Declaration."

"That's not what I asked!"

England's frown deepened. "Then what _are_ you asking? I'm afraid you've lost me, love."

"I—You… I thought you hated the rain!" America near-shouted. "I—I mean, it made everything muddy and it was hard to see and it was…" He ran a hand through his hair, apparently caught between shock and anger. "What is _wrong_ with you?!"

There was a long pause, before England finally just sighed, leaning forward and taking the other's chin in his hands. "I'm afraid I still haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." More pointedly, he added, "What do you think is 'wrong' with me?"

"You don't care! I broke away from you and you don't even care!" The America snapped, pulling his face out of the other's reach, eyes narrowing behind glasses that reflected England's rather shocked expression. "I don't… agh, just forget it!"

"I…" England sighed. "I assure you that I do care, quite a bit, actually, but I still don't really know what you breaking away from me has to do with the rain."

"It was raining when we fought for the last time!" America said, mouth set into a rather distinct downwards curve—one that looked rather odd on his face, as he rarely had even a mildly upset look on his face, much less a blatantly unhappy one.

And finally, finally, it seemed that the British nation had figured out what had gotten America so upset. Still, it was a bit… _odd_, that America would put so much stock into something like that.

"You… expect me to be traumatized by the rain because of one bad memory?" England's eyebrows scrunched closer to the middle, creasing the space in-between.

"Of course I do!" America half-snapped, half-informed. "I mean, you always get overdramatic about things like that, don't you? And-And France always said that you were totally weird about the rain for like a week afterwards, so…" he paused, looking rather confused. "Well, I mean, you took forever to finally accept an invitation to my parties, and just, you always get so weird about historical films about my Independence, and I mean, didn't you always say that the last battle we fought between just us was the worst for you?"

"America, your Revolution was centuries ago, why would I still put it between us?" England couldn't help but point out. "I thought we talked about this. But besides that, shouldn't you be happy that we're past it?"

America flushed red. "Well—_Yeah_, I'm glad you're over it, but I mean, just…" he trailed off before regaining his voice a few seconds later, "I thought for sure you'd hate the rain."

"Darling, you know as well as I do that it's nearly always raining in England," the British nation said kindly. "If I truly got upset by the rain, then wouldn't I _always_ be depressed? And if that were the case, would you really _want_ me constantly moping about?"

America shook his head.

"I thought not."

"But, I mean…" the American scratched his head. "I just… I don't get it. You still seem to get moody when it rains, you know? So I just sort of thought…"

"Given that we can argue at least nine times a day and it's raining nearly as often, I wouldn't put much stock in such a statistic, as we're bound to fight in the rain rather often, if we're in England," England joked, smiling softly. "Now, anything else you need me to explain, or shall we get back to what we were doing before?"

"It's not like we were doing anything," America said, rolling his eyes. "You were just reading."

England smirked. "If reading is truly as boring as you make it out to be, I suppose now wouldn't be a bad time to take a walk."

America just stared at him for a few seconds, as if expecting him to say it was a joke, before finally realizing that England was serious. "But—But it's freezing out there!"

"And you were complaining just this morning that you were tired of the heat-waves in your own country. Pick a complaint and stick with it, love," England said with a sideways smile, unable to resist the jab. "Besides, it's not as if we're going without coats."

With that, he got up from the couch and made his way to the coat closet, only turning around once he realized America wasn't directly behind him. "Well, are you coming?"

America blinked at him, realizing belatedly that he was supposed to follow. "…Right."

There was a moment's scramble of pulling on jackets and coats—and England unable to resist teasing the other nation about his inability to withstand the cold and deciding to pile on jacket after jacket. ("Not my fault you're so cold-hearted!" "Careful, love. London tends to get even colder for those that mistreat it.")

But just before they walked through the doorway, England was rather surprised to find something warm slipping around his neck. He glanced curiously up at his lover, who had gotten suspiciously quiet.

England smiled, though, upon feeling the soft yarn of the scarf around his neck; he followed the colors and, lo and behold, America had it wrapped around his own neck as well.

"I—I could only find one scarf, all right?" America finally said, though the nervousness in his voice gave him away as much as the gold-and-red pattern peeking out of an old box in the far corner of the closet did. "And I don't want you to be cold, so I figure my body-heat will just follow the scarf to your neck, right?"

England rolled his eyes. At times the other's blatant disregard for logic or romanticism was annoying, but at the moment, it was so endearing that he really couldn't resist leaning upwards and using that scarf to his full advantage. The kiss he stole was short and sweet and more chaste than he was used to, but it was lovely all the same.

Before America could react, though, he gave the other's hand a tug, pulling him out under the open sky, allowing the downpour to rain over them.

The door clicked shut, and the rain pattered against the roof, unwavering and unrelenting, but oh-so-consistent.


End file.
